


Harmless Untruths

by grey2510



Series: Misc SPN One Shots (<10k words) [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Crisis of Faith, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Kurt Vonnegut, M/M, Mild Angst, One Shot, Season/Series 11, cat's cradle by kurt vonnegut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 07:58:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5619508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/pseuds/grey2510
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas drops into the Impala while Dean is on a case for a philosophical discussion; Dean takes the opportunity to educate Cas about one of his favorite books. Both of them take the opportunity to finally say, or do, what they've been holding back for years.</p><p>Set vaguely in the first half of Season 11 (at least sometime after 11x03).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harmless Untruths

**Author's Note:**

> Most of Dean and Cas' conversation stems from Vonnegut's _Cat's Cradle_ , which I highly recommend. I've tried to make it so that you don't need to be familiar with the book to understand their conversation, but if you haven't read it, you should know that it's a satire on religion, politics, and progress: it's a black comedy about the end of the world. In it, there is a fake religion (Bokononism) that's only purposes are to 1) be an opiate to the masses and 2) critique religions/beliefs/dogma as a whole. Sparknotes/Shmoop it if you want to know more but are too lazy to read the book (and I'm totally not judging you...nope, not even a little bit...).
> 
> Basically, I love this book and I was so stoked when Dean mentioned it way back when in Season 4. Smart and literate Dean is the best Dean.
> 
> Oh...and Cas can fly because ~*vague canon-y sounding reasons*~.

 

_"No wonder kids grow up crazy. A cat's cradle is nothing but a bunch of X's between somebody's hands, and little kids look and look and look at all those X's...No damn cat, and no damn cradle." - Newt Hoenikker, Cat's Cradle_

 

 

“How, Dean,” Cas asks in that tone that Dean knows comes from a place of deep philosophical musings; it isn’t much different than his usual tone, but by now Dean can pick up on the nuances, “can you have such little faith?”

So it’s going to be one of _those_ discussions.

“Really, Cas? I woulda thought your dad’s mega vaca from freaking _everything_ would’ve cleared up that question,” Dean replies, glancing over at the angel, who fluttered into his passenger seat without warning about ten minutes ago. The street lights flick through the windows and across Cas’ face, accentuating the sharp shadows and lines of his features. The angel is staring out the windshield, inhumanly still, but he looks over at Dean with the response.

“That’s not what I meant.” Cas pauses, and Dean thinks he’s going to have to prompt him—or even better, just let the subject drop—but Cas seems to find the words to better express himself and he starts again. “You are the Righteous Man, even though I know you balk at the title, especially since we have averted the Apocalypse. And yet, you have no faith, no religious convictions, besides the knowledge that God and the angels _do_ , in fact, exist. And that's not faith, not in your case, although many humans would call it such because they have not had the same proof as you.”

“And what a delight that has been,” Dean mutters irritably, then jerks his head in Cas’ direction. “Present company excluded.”

“Thank you,” Cas acknowledges with the slightest of inclines of the head. “I still don't understand, though.”

“Understand what?”

“How you can still be righteous without traditional faith. For many, it is the belief in a higher power or a promise of an afterlife that leads to morals. But for you, that's not the case,” Cas clarifies. “How did that happen?”

“You don’t need religion to be a good person. And just ‘cause you have it doesn’t make you good,” Dean scoffs. “If your brothers and sisters weren’t enough proof of that, then you should spend some quality time with Fred Phelps.”

“He was an abomination. I assure you, he was not admitted to Heaven when he passed.”   

“Good.” Dean may not be a believer, and on the whole, he doesn’t much care what other people believe—whatever floats their boat—but the Westboro Baptist Church? Dean almost wishes they were possessed so he’d have an excuse to do something about those asshats. People are the worst sometimes.

“You still haven't answered my question,” Cas points out, and Dean snorts.

“Thought I just did,” he retorts. He’s a little curt, but Cas should count himself lucky: if it were Sam in the angel’s position, this conversation would’ve stopped before it even got started, Sam’s puppy dog eyes and worried voice be damned.

“Not really,” Cas counters, though without any heat or frustration, just calm observation. “You explained the opposite situation, how even with religion, one can be corrupt. You didn't explain how someone with no religion or faith can become good. It’s not that I doubt the ability for it to happen, I’m simply curious about the process.”

Dean sighs, absently noting how only Cas can get these conversations out of him. He’s never considered himself a man of great introspection—quite the opposite, in fact—or one of deep thought about the intricacies and complexities of life, but something about the angel brings out this side of him. He wouldn’t necessarily call it an openness because there is a great deal that Dean still refuses to confess or reveal, but it’s perhaps closer than any of the aborted heart-to-hearts Sam has ever attempted.

Maybe it’s because he doesn’t have to protect Cas. Not like he does with Sam. His big little brother can never see the chinks in the armor (though they get harder and harder to conceal each year), but Cas…Cas has seen it all, a fact that the angel often uses to his advantage.

“I’ve carried your soul, Dean. I rebuilt you from the atoms up. There is little you can say that would shock or repel me, or that I don’t already know or suspect,” Cas had said once.

And hadn’t _that_ knocked Dean for a fucking loop.

He contemplates what to tell Cas that would satisfy him for an answer. And how do you explain morality and irreligiousness to a freaking Angel of the Lord anyway? Dean’s never been great with words; he prefers actions: clear, simple, to the point.

The solution that floats to the top of his mind may be considered cheating, but Dean doesn’t care. It’s about time Cas got a real education, anyway.

“Check behind my seat. Is my duffel there?”

“Your duffel?” Cas wonders.

“I’m answering your question. Grab the bag.”

Cas twists and half lifts himself out of the passenger seat, reaching behind and digging out the worn Army surplus duffel. “Yes, it’s here,” he narrates rather unnecessarily as the bag falls into his lap, an undercurrent of questioning in his voice.

“Alright, there should be a copy of _Cat’s Cradle_ in there. Read it, then we’ll talk.”

After a moment of rifling through rolled up flannel and boxers of dubious cleanliness, Cas pulls out the book, fingers lightly tracing the edges of the pink cover with the giant green V. It’s Dean’s second copy—he’d had a battered paperback with 70s style cover art that he’d accidentally walked away with from one of his senior year schools (was it the one in Indiana? Or Colorado?...Colorado, he decides, realizing it was the last school he attended before dropping out). The book had been dog-eared and randomly underlined in places from previous students, and some scholar had drawn a dick in blue ballpoint inside the back cover, but Dean had toted it around for years until it had finally fallen apart and was missing pages.

He hadn’t intended to read it when it was assigned, just like a lot of the books he got in school, but one weekend, the power went out in the motel they were staying at, and there were only so many games of poker by flashlight that he and Sam could play before they got bored. So when Sam had curled up on one bed with a flashlight and book, and with no TV to act as a distraction, Dean had reluctantly done the same. And he’d been hooked. He liked Vonnegut’s style: it was simple, with short chapters, and there was enough black humor and snark about _everything_ to appeal to an eighteen-year-old with a problem with authority.

“See the cat? See the cradle?” the character, Newt, always asks. For Sammy’s sake, Dean’s answer would always be “yes”. But Dean knows the truth: it’s just string.

Eventually he’d even picked up copies of _Slaughterhouse-Five_ , _Breakfast of Champions_ , and _Welcome to the Monkey House_ , though it would always be a toss-up between _Slaughterhouse-Five_ and _Cat’s Cradle_ for his favorite.

“I’m unfamiliar with this text,” Cas says at last. “Metatron must not have read it.”

“Well, that explains a lot,” Dean snips.

Before Dean can say anymore, there is a flutter of wings and Cas disappears. Dean sighs in disappointment: Cas could’ve stayed in the car and read; it’s not like the dude would’ve gotten car sick from it. Dean is loath to admit it, but it’s one of the reasons why if there’s research to be done on the road, he pulls the “Sammy is a nerd and I just want to drive my Baby” card; otherwise, he ends up nauseous after about a half hour, especially if he’s trying to read some ancient and convoluted text.

Twenty minutes later, just as Dean is in the middle of weaving in between a semi-truck that has no business being in the fast lane and a lumbering VW bus, the flutter of wings and sudden reappearance of his friend nearly makes him drive off the road. He slams his hand on the steering wheel.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he swears, not caring in the slightest that he probably just majorly insulted Cas’ half-brother or whatever. It’s been awhile since the angel’s arrival has shocked him this much, but he’d been so concentrated on squeezing Baby through the narrow opening available to pass the truck, especially in these rainy and dark conditions.

“I’m sorry,” Cas says with regret, and Dean thinks this might be the first time that Cas has ever apologized for scaring the crap out of him. Usually, when Cas has the juice to flit in and out, he’s too angelified to take these things into consideration. The apology sounds downright _human_ , and Dean can’t find it in himself to stay annoyed. “I finished the book,” the angel continues, and he carefully returns it to the duffel bag.

“That was fast.”

“It was a short book. And I am a celestial being,” Cas explains. Dean fights not to roll his eyes, but he does glance over at the angel, who is, of course, studying him intently. “You’re tired.”

“Yeah, there’s a motel coming up,” Dean says, jutting his chin forward to point. They’re silent as Dean switches into the slow lane, then the exit ramp.

“I enjoyed the story,” Cas reports as the Impala rumbles up to the stop sign at the end of the ramp.

“Awesome,” Dean nods. “But let’s save the God-talk till we get a room, ok?”

“As you wish,” Cas says simply. And if it were anyone else, Dean would’ve made a Westley joke, but he knows that 1) it’ll probably go over the angel’s head and 2) he does not want to have a conversation with _Cas_ about what that line implies, especially if it _doesn’t_ go over his head.

The Granby Motel is just like every other motel Dean’s ever been in, peeling paint and all, and the clerk looks up with a bored expression when the two men (well, one man and one angel) walk into the lobby. Naturally, Cas stands a little too close behind Dean, and so Dean isn’t even surprised when the clerk raises a sardonic eyebrow and immediately tells them the rate for a single king-sized bed.

Dean is about to correct him and ask for two queens, but Cas chimes in with his classic, “I don’t need to—”. Dean cuts him off before he can utter “sleep” because he doesn’t want to explain to the clerk why Cas doesn’t sleep, or let the angel get to his other classic, “I’ll watch over you.” He’s oddly more comfortable with the clerk assuming they’re sleeping together. At least the clerk isn’t a prick about it; you never know this far south.

Even so, he’s acutely aware that the back of his neck is flushing red when he accepts the room, signs the receipt, and takes the keys.

“Where's Sam?” Cas asks on their way back to the car so that Dean can repark her closer to the room. The way he says it makes it sound like an afterthought, and the petty side of Dean feels a bit pleased that Cas had sought out Dean specifically, without even noticing Sam is not present. It’s not the first time it’s happened, and Dean doubts it’ll be the last, but it always makes a warm feeling spread in his gut—until he quashes it with guilt for thinking so low of his brother, and of Cas.

“Sam’s back in Georgia. One of the victims was just traveling through, so her husband’s out this way. He’s still working the case and the other victims’ families back there, and I’ve got this one. Plus, I think Sammy’s got an in with one of the nurses at the hospital,” Dean smirks.

“An ‘in?’”

“Yeah, five-nine, wavy blonde hair, legs for miles, and looking at my baby bro like he’s the best thing since sliced bread...do I need to spell it out for ya?”

"No, I understand."

“Kid needs to get laid more,” Dean observes. “He’d probably be a lot happier for it.”

Cas is quiet with this pronouncement as Dean pulls the car into a space outside room 26.

“What?” Dean asks irritably, expecting Cas to make some judgment about his own judgments regarding his brother. Cas’ eyes flick over to Dean, then out the window.

“I’ve noticed you have not been ‘getting laid’ as often as you used to,” Cas comments bluntly, then gets out of the car.

Dean scowls. Cas isn’t wrong, but he makes it sound like Dean’s been striking out or he’s repressed or whatever. He simply...hasn’t wanted to. He never thought he’d say this, but meaningless sex has begun to bore him. Not the actual act, but the thought of finding some random chick to hook up with for the night has started to lose its appeal. It’s not like he’s looking for a white-picket fence or something, but the string of girls—and maybe a couple guys, if he’s being honest with himself (the thing with the bartender back in Kansas had been a mistake, Dean’ll admit; don’t shit where you eat, as the saying goes)—just isn’t what he wants anymore.

He wants _more._

But he doesn’t know how to ask for it, how to find it.

Well, that’s not entirely true. He’s found it, he thinks. So it’s really just the asking that terrifies him.

Ha, 'just.' Fuck that word.

Dean grunts and unfolds himself from the car, grabbing his duffel from the middle of the front seat where Cas had left it. Cas is already inside the room, having mojoed himself inside and opened the door for Dean, and Dean follows him in. It’s not the worst place he’s been in: the comforter on the bed looks like it was purchased, and washed, in this century, and the carpet is relatively free of stains, but it sure as shit isn’t the Hilton. Tossing his bag by the bed, Dean immediately toes off his boots, shucks his jacket, and flops onto the bed sideways, feet still planted on the ground. Cas looks interestedly around the room, awkwardly standing by the dresser with the TV on it. Unfortunately, Dean realizes as he stares up at the ceiling, there’s no couch or chairs in the room, so Cas has nowhere to go.

“Pull up some comforter, man,” he grumbles, twisting his head to get a better view of Cas when the angel makes no response except to tilt his head.

“You’re laying on top of the comforter, Dean,” Cas points out. “And I don’t need to sleep, as you know.”

“No,” Dean sighs out in exasperation. “I meant have a seat and quit standing around like a doof.”

Cas cracks a smile, almost to himself, but he does cross the room to perch on the edge of the bed.

“What’s so funny?”

“‘Doof,'” Cas explains without explaining. Dean lifts an eyebrow, signaling him to continue. “It’s what Claire calls me.”

“She’s not wrong,” Dean snorts in amusement, throwing an arm over his face and burying his eyes in the crook of his elbow. “How is she, anyway?”

“Good, I think. I try to talk to her at least once a week, though we text more frequently.” There is something longing and nostalgic, and perhaps a little sad, in the angel’s voice, and Dean takes his arm away from his face, blinking in the light of the cheap wall sconce. Cas doesn’t look upset, so Dean takes that as a good sign. “She asks about you.”

“About just me? Or me ‘n Sam?”

“Sam occasionally, but mostly you. I think you had more of an impression on her.”

“Mini-golfing will do that,” Dean mutters, even though he knows that their conversation during the game—which Dean still refuses to admit he lost—probably sunk in more for the kid than the holes-in-one they both got.  

“Hmm,” is Cas’ only reply for a moment. “She told me what you said. About her father.”

Dean sits up, having realized that this conversation is probably only going to get heavier from here. “Yeah? I give crap advice, so if she wants a refund…”

“Dean,” Cas says in an almost-scold, and Dean knows by now to just shut up because Cas hates it when he’s self-deprecating. (Which, really, is just too effing bad for the angel because Dean is pretty sure he's about 90% self-deprecation.) “I think…” Cas pauses for a second. “I think you were able to give her some of her faith back. So I thank you for that.”

Faith. And it all comes full-circle.

“Nice segue,” Dean smirks. Cas looks at him, bewildered.

“I’m sorry?”

“Faith. You’re a sneaky bastard, but I see what you did. Back to the God-talk.”

Cas at least has the grace—the normal kind, not the smitey kind—to look a little embarrassed about being found out. Dean enjoys the moment; it’s not often he gets the upperhand in these conversations. Dean twists and swings his legs up onto the bed, then scooches his back up to the headboard. Cas remains at the foot of the bed, but he does turn to better face Dean, crooking one leg up on the mattress.

“Alright, lay it on me. You read the book. You got my answer.” Dean begins, knowing full well that the angel will want explanations and discussions.

“I’m still not sure how it answers the question.” 

“Because religion or faith or whatever, it’s all a bunch of bullshit, Cas. You read what it said at the beginning?”

“‘Call me Jonah?’” Cas quotes the first line.

“Nah, before that.”

“The epigraph?” Cas asks in clarification.

“Sure, if that’s what it’s called. The quote and message before the book actually gets going.”

“The epigraph,” Cas says with more certainty, then recites, “‘Nothing in this book is true.’”

It’s like pulling teeth with the angel sometimes.

“And…?” Dean prompts.

“‘Live by the _foma_ that make you brave and kind and healthy and happy.’ I’m still not sure why Vonnegut felt it necessary to create a fake language—or at least parts of one. He could have simply written ‘harmless untruths’ in English instead of ‘ _foma._ ’”

“Not the point, man,” Dean waves off the linguistic commentary with a hand. Cas is quiet, but Dean would swear he can almost see the gears turning in that celestial brain.

“What _foma_ do you live by, Dean?”

Dean snorts. “I dunno. I kill evil sons-of-bitches and try to save people. Doesn’t always work, but I tell myself it’s worth it, that I’m doing something good in this world.”

“That’s not a harmless untruth. You and Sam _are_ doing good in this world.” Cas’ eyes are soft with concern, and Dean is suddenly reminded of a burger joint in the midst of searching for Claire.

“Yeah, well, we’ve also broken the world a few times and had to put it back together, so…” Dean confesses with a raise of one shoulder.

“You’re not alone in that,” Cas acknowledges, looking at his hands in his lap.

“Why do you think we count you as family, Cas? No one else knows how to fuck up as bad as we do,” Dean says in an attempt at humor. It falls mostly flat, though the corner of Cas’ mouth does twitch upwards slightly.

“And the rest of it?” Cas asks suddenly.

“Rest of what?”

“‘Live by the _foma_ that makes you brave and kind and healthy and happy,’” Cas rattles off again, emphasizing the latter half of the phrase.

“Two outta four ain’t bad,” Dean shrugs, then elaborates when Cas furrows his brow, “I think I got a point or two in the ‘brave’ column, and I ain’t dead, so I guess I can tick off ‘healthy.’”

“You would be less so if I didn’t clean your arteries whenever I heal you,” Cas remarks dryly, and a small smile creeps over his features.

“Wait, really?” Dean knows that he’s suffered enough injuries that he should look like a Frankenstein ( _“Frankenstein’s creation”_, he can hear Sam correct him in his head), all scars and joints that never set properly, but he never considered what else the angel could do when he used his mojo.

“Burgers and pie are hardly nutritious. I’m surprised you did not suffer a heart attack before I met you. Also, your liver should be in far worse condition.”

“You tell Sammy about this, and I’ll kill you,” Dean warns. Last thing he needs is for his little brother to gain more ammunition for his crusade for everyone to eat rabbit food. The Leviathan-SucroCorp fiasco had been bad enough.

“Of course, Dean,” Cas nods, and Dean can’t tell if the angel is being serious or is just playing along with Dean’s own joke. He wouldn’t _really_ kill Cas over this. Well. Probably not. “I believe you also have ‘kind’ covered.”

The return to the Vonnegut conversation jolts Dean a bit, as does the matter-of-fact way Cas comments on his apparent kindness.

“I guess I’ve had my moments,” he allows with as much levity as he can muster with the discomfort he feels at hearing praise. “I can be an ass, though, so I don’t think they’ll be ranking me up with the Dalai Lama anytime soon, though.”

“Probably not, no,” Cas agrees before soldiering on with his interrogation. “Are you happy?”

The million dollar question.

“I’m fine,” Dean deflects. “It’s not like this life was ever gonna be a bed of roses.”

Cas seems to accept that for the time being, and they sit in silence. It’s not an uncomfortable silence; they are just both wrapped up in thought. Dean’s pocket buzzes, and he digs out his phone to find a text from Sam. 

 

 

> SAM: Still no obv connection btwn vics
> 
> SAM: You stop for the night?
> 
> DEAN: Ya granby motel in some podunk town outside birmingham
> 
> DEAN: Cas is here
> 
> SAM: He ok?
> 
> DEAN: Same as always i guess
> 
> SAM: Whats that mean?
> 
> DEAN: I dunno hes asking about god and shit
> 
> SAM: Amara connection?
> 
> DEAN: No just talking about faith and w/e
> 
> DEAN: And vonnegut
> 
> SAM: You two have weird convos
> 
> DEAN: Shut up
> 
> SAM: Please. If it were me youd already be cracking a joke about sitting around braiding hair
> 
> DEAN: Again...shut up
> 
> SAM: Well neither of you have these luscious locks so i guess youll have to settle for making friendship bracelets
> 
> DEAN: Youre a dick
> 
> SAM: Learned from the best
> 
> SAM: Have a nice slumber party
> 
> DEAN: Bite me bitch
> 
> SAM: Jerk

Dean looks up from his phone to find Cas studying him once again. For some reason, the space between them seems both vast and entirely too close. He tosses the phone onto the nightstand before speaking.

“How’re you doing, Cas?” Dean asks with genuine concern. They haven’t had much time to talk lately, especially with the Darkness and Cas’ recovery time—and Dean suspects that Cas still isn’t 100%. He’s no psychologist, but pretty much every hunter is a walking case of PTSD, so the signs are easy to spot; apparently angels are just as susceptible, if Cas’ Netflix binging and reluctance to hunt and fight have been any indication.

At least he’s not showing up naked, covered in bees, on Baby.

“I’m fine,” Cas replies in an unconscious echo of Dean’s earlier assessment of himself. Dean gives him a look, and Cas grimaces and adds, “I’m better than before.”

Dean nods, then replays their previous discussion in his mind. Despite not being one to talk about feelings, he somehow feels a bit like a jackass for not reciprocating and asking about Cas more. “So, what about you? You heard my _foma_. What gets you through the day?”

“I lost my faith in my Father years ago,” Cas answers heavily. “But I still believe in my mission, the original mission of the angels. In a sense, my harmless untruths are not all that different from yours.”

“Hey, buddy, you don’t get to call out my ‘untruths’ if you’ve got the same ones. You save people, too,” Dean assures the angel.

Cas considers this. “Well, I guess my untruth, then, is _why_ I’m doing it. Before, it was because it was God’s will or Heaven’s will. Then…” He trails off, looking almost ashamed.

“What?” Dean asks.

“I hate to say it, but Metatron was right,” Cas replies with a cryptic shrug.

“You’re listening to Metadouche?”

“‘Metadouche’ he may be, but he was correct when he said I lie to myself about my motivations.”

Dean pushes up from the headboard to sit sideways on the bed, but turned towards Cas. “Meaning?” 

“He said that I ‘draped myself in the flag of heaven’, that I claimed I wanted to save humanity, but really it was only ever about saving _one_ human. He wasn’t wrong.”

Cas’ eyes meet Dean’s for a long moment and something in Dean’s gut twists. Dean swallows thickly.

“Are _you_ happy, Cas?” Dean mumbles, surprising himself with the question.

Cas gives a sad, wry smile. “Yes, I suppose that is also one of my untruths.”

Dean feels his face heat up and his eyes drop to the floor. “I’m sorry, Cas.”

“For what?”

Dean looks up again, but the sincerity in Cas’ face is almost too painful and Dean instead studies his hand splayed on the blue and brown comforter. It’s only inches from Cas’ thigh, where Cas rests his own hand.

“I, uh, I think I’ve known. For awhile, that you, y’know…” he stutters. He knows he’s screwing this up, and he draws his hand back, retreating into himself. Cas notices the movement and stiffens. Dean raises his eyes to Cas’, and sees a mask on his friend’s face, a mask that hides the pain of rejection. “Shit, Cas. That’s not what…”

Fuck words. Actions.

He knows what action he _wants_ to make, but he can’t do that to Cas, can’t cross that line. Not until he’s sure that Cas wants that, too. He knows Cas isn’t completely naïve in these matters, but Dean certainly has far more experience.

So, he settles for putting his hand back on the comforter between them, but this time, palm up. Cas studies the open hand, then Dean’s face, the mask cracking into surprise and hesitation and…

Slowly, Cas covers Dean’s hand with his. Their fingers lock together like they were meant to. Almost in sync, they both shift on the bed closer to each other, until a loud buzzing from the nightstand breaks the moment.

“I’m gonna kill my brother,” Dean groans, but Cas simply smiles.

“You should answer. It might be about the case or an emergency.”

Reluctantly, Dean reaches over to the phone, reads the text—Sam thinks the connection between the vics might have something to do with their alma maters—and rolls his eyes; definitely not an emergency.

He belatedly notices his hand is still wound in Cas’ when he returns the phone to the table. Half-ginning, he remarks, “At least it wasn’t Rowena cockblocking this time. Even though I’m still gonna kill Sam for that.”

“Rowena?” Cas’ eyes narrow in question and Dean realizes what he just said.

“Oh, uh, yeah. When she lifted the attack dog spell. I almost…” His eyes flick between Cas’ lips and eyes while the image of Cas lying on the floor, unmoving, rises up to the surface of his mind. He’d cradled Cas’ head in his hand, his thumb had brushed the angel’s cheek as he’d helped him sit upright, and he’d been lost in that moment of relief and concern, inches away from bringing their lips together, when Rowena had disarmed Sam and instantly broken the other, non-magical, spell.

Cas’ eyes widen in understanding, then a soft grin lifts the corners of his mouth. “Truly?”

“Truly,” Dean confirms with a near-cocky smirk, but that cockiness is swept away when Cas makes his move. The kiss is clumsy and a little awkward due to their relative positions on the bed, but Dean doesn’t care in the slightest. Cas leans back eventually, and Dean takes a breath, a little stunned.

“I decided that three out of four simply isn’t good enough,” Cas explains. Dean blinks in confusion. Cas is practically kneeling on the bed, and Dean is using one hand behind him to prop himself up while the other grips Cas’ bicep. “Brave.” Kiss. “Kind.” Kiss. “Healthy.” Kiss.

“Happy,” Dean breathes before Cas’ lips cover his own again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos appreciated!
> 
> Check out my other works (sorted by series for easier navigation):  
> [Grey's works](http://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/series)  
> Come visit me on Tumblr! @[grey2510](https://grey2510.tumblr.com/)


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